THE DAY I SHOT THAT QUITTER, GREG KRUMWIEDE. Marc Allan Planting trees was tough work. In the church I was in, in the early 70’s, a lot of youth, homeless or otherwise found faith in God and began a life of teaching and training in the ways of Christ. The church was centered in Eureka, California and income opportunities were limited. So, because Northern California and the Pacific Northwest are covered with trees, we started a business planting trees and doing other jobs in the woods and mountains. The money we earned went toward supplying the needs of the ranches where we lived and helped make the teaching and training possible. But like I said, planting trees was hard work. First, you had to do the work when the weather suited the two year old douglas fir seedlings. That meant cold and damp. Which meant fall and winter. And, well, the planting doesn’t happen in some climate controlled nursery somewhere, it happens right out on the mountain slopes. There, you have to climb over rocks, tree stumps and branches, past the occasional rattlesnake or bear as you’re lugging a 30 lb bag of wet tree seedlings (which leaks down your pant legs—did I already mention that it was usually really cold?) up or down a steep hillside. All that would be challenge enough, but the reason you’re there is to put trees in the ground. At least 800 in a day if you want to call yourself an average planter. Some, who occupy the pantheon of tree planting superheros, did a lot more. The operation consisted of swinging your heavy, duck bill shaped hoe-dad over your head into the ground as hard as you can, sinking the blade all the way up to the wooden handle. Then you rocked it back and forth, creating a void space in the ground. Next, you pulled back on the hoe dad to “open up” the hole and now you could take one of the seedlings and flip the roots down into the hole, remove the hoe dad and stomp on the side of the hole to close it all up. Takes just seconds. Unless there was a root or rock shelf hidden two inches under the top soil. Then your hoe dad, and the hands, arms, teeth and body which were connected to it would vibrate like a guitar string. The first fifteen minutes of the day your body would protest like crazy at the punishment you were inflicting on it. Then, it seemed as if you passed through a barrier, and your body surrendered. After that, it was easier, though still not easy. Add to that rain, snow, wind, steep slopes, the guy in front of you who always took the “gravy” ground (flat, no rocks or roots, dirt softened by logging vehicles) and you get a bit of an idea of what it was like. After a few days of this, the mountains had lost their beauty and will power is what got us through. The church was sending teams to different parts of the country and world to share the Christian message. It so happened that for a couple of weeks, the Germany team (by now veterans—we had been planting for a few months) and the Chicago team (most of them new to the planting brotherhood) worked together near Cottage Grove, Oregon. The job we were on was typical for tree planting—all the usual trials and tribulations. Our vehicles were pulled off to the side of a logging road as we waited for new instructions about our next unit. The whole area had been logged and both sides of the road looked like a battlefield with deep holes and mounds of dirt thrown up everywhere. I was out of my truck and since it was a cold winter’s day, was wearing a long army trench coat I had gotten from somewhere. I was standing next to the truck full of the Chicago Team rookies and was talking to them. Greg Krumwiede, a good friend and experienced tree planter was on the Chicago team too, providing experience and help for the newbies. He felt nature calling, and began to walk away from the trucks to answer the call in some trees beyond “the battlefield” next to the trucks. In mock seriousness, I called out to him, “Get back here! You can’t quit!” Greg turned and looked at me and screamed, “I can’t take it any more! I can’t take it!” and began to run away over the hills and craters. I pulled a hoe-dad from the back of the pick-up, aimed it at Greg, and using my best 12 yr old’s imitation of a machine gun, shot him. He gave a cry, threw up his arms and disappeared from sight. I turned to the Chicago guys who –it seemed like at least a couple of them—watched this whole spontaneous performance with a little concern on their faces. In a German accent, I sternly warned them, “Zare iz no iscape”. To everyone’s relief (especially, of course, his own) Greg reappeared, and “Zare iz no iscape” became a byword for the Chicago team, when things got tough.
Posted on: Sat, 28 Sep 2013 01:52:20 +0000